Soulmates and Enemies
by Desaded
Summary: In a world where you are marked with both the names of your soulmate and mortal enemy, what do you do when they are the same name?
1. Clint

When Clint Barton was born, his mother held him in her arms and took inventory, as most mothers do. Ten fingers, ten toes, one perfect little nose; everything where it should be, and all was right with Edith's world.

But then cautiously, hesitantly, she checked the insides of his wrists, and immediately burst into tears.

A nurse hurried to Edith's side, concern on her face.

"Ma'am? What's wrong?"

"T-they're the same," Edith wailed. "Both exactly the same!"

"Now, now," the nurse soothed. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything, especially if it's a common name! There are lots of Sarahs and Toms in the world." She took a quick peek at the squalling infant's wrists.

"Oh," she whispered, before putting on a bright, strained smile. "Let's get this little man cleaned up, shall we?"

She gently scooped the baby up and moved across the room, leaving Edith behind to stare at her own wrists, the name 'Harold' emblazoned across them both.

-o-

The teasing started in kindergarten.

Prior to attending Shell Rock Elementary, Clint's world had been very narrow. He lived far enough out of town that his contact with other children was limited. His brother was his only playmate, and Barney always had better things to tease him about, anyway.

But within the first hour of the first day, his wrists had caught the attention of the other children, and they circled around him, each talking over the other.

"That's a weird name!"

"Why are they the same? Does that mean your wife is gonna hate you?"

"What kind of name is _that_? Is it even a girl's!?"

It continued on until the teacher clapped her hands and called the kids to order. They scampered away, taking their places at the long, low tables scattered around the room. Clint hung back, pulling his shirt-sleeves down to hide his wrists before reluctantly joining the rest of the class.

-o-

By the time Clint joined the circus, he'd taken to wearing thick, terry-cloth wristbands. They were more comfortable than long sleeved shirts, and they hid the goddamn name on his wrists perfectly. He was tired of the looks, and the questions. He was tired of the jokes, and sneers, and had long ceased trying to explain anything about his marks. He just put his head down and went about losing himself in the constant crowds.

That changed when Jacques decided to train him.

Clint swapped out the wristbands for an archery glove and an arm guard. He lifted his gaze from the ground and focused on the targets instead. And as time passed, he cared less about the name he was burdened with, and more about making a name for _himself_.

-o-

The years marched on.

Clint kept on the move, never staying in one place for too long, never putting down roots. He was wary about meeting new people and allowing anyone behind his walls. He figured that as long as he held himself apart, then he'd never have to worry about meeting his greatest love, who, apparently, was also his worst enemy.

He'd rather be alone than have to deal with that mess.

-o-

Eventually Clint found himself in the service of SHIELD. In the early days he volunteered for every mission, took every opportunity to make himself indispensable to the organization.

And for a while, it helped. For a while he stopped thinking about the goddamn name.

But eventually, it started creeping back in. He lay in his narrow bed, lonely and unsure in the post-midnight hours, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Could he truly avoid his fate? And really, when it came right down to it; should he?

When those moments passed, he called himself a fool and continued on, but each time the doubt in his methods grew more and more pronounced.

-o-

2011

Clint took the posting in New Mexico on a whim. He thought it would be easy…maybe give him some much needed downtime. What could be so difficult about helping guard an unknown object while the eggheads looked it over?

He couldn't have been more wrong.

It wasn't the freak storm, or the big, blond jackass that showed up to wreck the place. Hell, it wasn't even the giant robot.

It was a moment in between the two, while he was still in his perch. Blondie had been dragged off to be questioned, and Clint was gazing down at that damned hammer when his wrists started _burning_. He uttered a startled little cry, and clawed his arm-guard off, expecting to see the skin beneath melting away.

But everything looked fine, and a moment later the pain faded.

"What the hell was that even about?" he muttered, rubbing his exposed wrist slowly.

-o-

2012

Still in New Mexico, but this time guarding a different unknown object. At least this time they were in an actual base, with real beds instead of hunkered in the middle of the desert. Granted, the Tesseract creeped him out far more than Thor's hammer ever did, but it was part and parcel in working for SHIELD.

And then the day came when the door he'd suspected the Tesseract to be opened fully, and a nightmare appeared.

65 seconds later, everyone was down.

Five seconds after that, the mystery man first laid hands on him, and Clint's wrists exploded in agony.

Ten more seconds and his will drifted away, along with the pain.

Thirty second more, and the man announced his name, sending shockwaves through the small part of Clint's psyche that was caged away.

Loki.

That familiar, four letter word that had been emblazoned across the archers wrists since birth. The source of all his misery and doubt.

His soulmate.

His enemy.

His downfall.


	2. Loki

In the thick of battle, the Jotun grasped his arm and Loki had looked down, perplexed as his skin washed a glacial blue. The shocked look they had shared just prior to the Jotun's death had different meanings to each of them.

To the beast, it was the realization that the man before him was not a true Asgardian, but his own kin in disguise.

To Loki, it was the revelation of a lifetime of lies.

He turned his wrist, eyes searching for that which he had never seen. And there, slashed across the pale blue skin, in jagged, black symbols, was a name.

The All Speak failed him, then, and he found himself unable to decipher the language. It seemed familiar somehow, but he lacked the time to examine it further. Tugging down his sleeve, Loki willed his skin pale and returned to the fray without even bothering to check his right wrist.

Love didn't interest him.

Knowing who his greatest enemy was, however, seemed a far more pressing bit of information to have at his disposal.

-o-

Late that night, after Thor had been banished, Loki stole into the vault and approached the Casket. The hesitation he felt as he stood before the Jotun relic was tempered with fear, but lacking the sudden appearance of a stray Jotun, he knew of no other way to replicate the events of that day.

Despite spending hours frantically pouring over the many books at his disposal, Loki had failed to break, or even _identify_ the enchantment upon him. He'd never experienced magic like this; it had no signature, no tell-tale trace to even hint at its existence.

It was beyond his skills, and the anger he first felt quickly gave way to fear. He had gone searching for answers, yet only raised more questions.

Questions that he was certain would tear his reality apart.

Loki steeled his spine and wrapped his fingers around the handles of the Casket. His breathing grew ragged as he felt his hands growing cold, colder, _frozen_ , and he wondered over the fact that there was no pain.

A gasp tore from his throat, and blue skin bloomed at his fingertips, spreading slowly up his forearms as the Casket washed away the enchantment. He glanced at his right wrist, seeing the scrawl of Midgardian script, half-hidden by his sleeve.

He committed the name to memory, almost against his will. Kings had no time for love, no need for _anything_ beyond absolute power, and he would do well to remember that.

And suddenly, the vault was filled with ghosts of memories.

Child-Thor standing near to this very spot, declaring he would slay all the monsters; never knowing that the 'brother' to his left was of the monster's bloodline.

Odin turning a weary gaze upon them, and how tightly he had squeezed child-Loki's hand as he led them away from the Casket.

The eternal questions of why his wrists were blank, when all around him were marked. The evasive answers he received that stank of lies.

So many lies.

And as the glamour fell fully from him, a voice rang out from behind him.

"Stop!" Odin exclaimed, and Loki stiffened.

The time for truth had come.

-o-

On Earth, standing over Mjolnir, Loki felt a burning pain in his right wrist.

He blocked it out; marked it unimportant. He had too many schemes in play to worry about love.

And how very fitting that his one true love would end up being a mortal, with their fleeting lives, and delicate natures? One of these many scurrying Midgardians that surrounded him, yet could not sense his presence.

The pain mounted, and Loki attempted to pull Thor's hammer from its' rocky cradle. He hissed in frustration as it stood fast, unmoving, and glanced to the sky above before moving on.

So much to do, so little time.

-o-

He was falling.

The Bi-Frost above receded, and Thor's scream faded to nothing, and still he fell.

The cold surrounded him, the silence of the stars beating in his ears.

And as he fell, pain grew in his left wrist.

It swelled as he hurtled through the darkness, became a raging fire as he sensed something, _someone_ approaching.

It was then that it occurred to him that perhaps he had made a grave error in releasing his hold on the spear. That perhaps there were worse things than being marked a traitor, a Jotun; and those things were waiting for him, here, in the dark.

-o-

Loki had defeated the majority of the forces on the other side of the portal. He had turned a small force to his side, obtained the Tesseract with less effort than he had expected and was now being whisked off to safety. Climbing into the back of the unfamiliar vehicle, he wore exhaustion like a mantle, feeling the constant pain he had endured since Thanos discovered him finally beginning to fade.

Save for his right wrist.

He frowned down at the offending appendage, willing the burning to stop, reminding himself of the tasks before him, and their importance to his master.

Sometime later, after their escape, after the vast explosion that decimated the enemy base, they arrived at their destination. Loki moved to step down from the back of the vehicle, and was met by the driver. He was the first mortal turned to his side, a worthy and skilled adversary who had cemented his place at Loki's side based on how tenaciously he had fought.

The man held out his hand to help the trembling god down from the back of the truck, and as Loki fingers wrapped around the mortal's, he felt a lightning strike to his right wrist.

He hissed in a pained breath before raising his eyes to the swirling blue of his thrall.

"You okay, boss?" the man asked.

Loki countered the question with one of his own.

"Your name," he demanded. "What is it?"

"Clint," was the answer given. "Clint Barton, at your service."

Loki uttered a small, defeated noise before briefly closing his eyes, unable to meet that bright blue gaze.

"Of course it is," he murmured. "How could it be anything else?"


End file.
